It's in the Blood
by Diane Langley
Summary: "It must happen this way. Perhaps, even, things must change to stay the same." The brothers struggle with the inevitable march of progress in their lives. Post-BDS II. Three-shot.
1. Chapter 1

"_For he who does not love his brother, whom he has seen, cannot love God, whom he has not seen."_

I John 4:20

"It's time, brother," Murphy said, kicking a boot heel against the ground and looking down. Connor could remember other times when these exact words had been spoken by his twin, and all of them had led into dangerous, new situations. In some ways, though, this decision now was as dangerous as any of them. They lived their life in plural, two halves of one entity, nameless parts of a whole, a whole called The Saints by zealous media outlets. To cleave the two halves this way changed everything they had ever known.

"Ya don't fucking know that," Connor shook his head and looked out over the rich green land of Ireland. The countryside was as beautiful as anything on God's earth, so alive that every blade of grass seemed to be singing praise to its Maker. The brothers were in the meadow with the sheep around them, their horses grazing too, while they surveyed the scene. When he was here, looking on this slice of heaven, it was easy to ignore the grisly realities of organized crime and human evil, but he knew better than to ignore, or worse, forget, them. His brother's decision was a risk to that knowledge. If men like them could get married, then they could also forget God's mission for them on this earth.

"I do so." Indignation was in his voice now. "I'm not some kid who doesn't know what he's talking about. I know this is right. I know wha' I'm doing."

Connor knew that only a few months before, Murphy's words would have been littered with the f-word, but his brother's sharp tongue had softened of late, ever since he met Clara. At first, he, too, had comfortably softened his language. There was no harm in cleaner speech, and additionally, he felt less need to curse now that they were back living in the homeland, farming and working with their hands on a day to day basis. A few months in the Hoag, followed by two years out of it, had changed them; they worked on call now, so to speak, and it was not unusual for a plane ticket to show up on the doorstep, often in the hands of local clergymen, with a social security number or other detail for them to follow up on to work out their own plan. Some copycatters worked stateside, but they inevitably got caught after one or two small-scale acts. Still, though, he was proud to have awakened the American consciousness out of indifference, to the belief that good should and could triumph over evil.

Murphy coughed obviously, and Connor knew he had taken too long to reply.

"Clara's a real nice girl, Murph, but there's no reason to marry her right this second. You've only been seein' her for a coupla months."

"She's it. Ya just… ya just know," Murphy touched his hand to his heart and tapped twice. "Isn't that how Da described finding Ma? Tapped twice on his heart just like tha' and we just ate it up. Loved the idea."

"That was fucking different! He didn't have a—" He caught himself before he finished the sentence, but Murphy knew in an instant. Connor should have known there was no hiding anything from him, especially anything emotional. Murphy had always been the one quicker to joy, quicker to rage, quicker to sadness, and had leaned on his brother's cooler logic to hold him together. Now that logic was fleeing in a moment of vulnerability.

"Didn't have a brother, eh?" Murphy finished softly, taking a step closer and putting a hand on his shoulder. The familiar weight of the broad hand was comforting. This hand was one that had held him still as gory wounds were cauterized, had pulled the trigger to save his life, had carried him out of firefights, had cut his hair and tattooed his body. For a melodramatic second, he recognized that the hand on his shoulder was as dear to him as his own; then he smacked it away.

"That's not what I was gonna say," he hoped he sounded annoyed and indignant. Just because Murphy had read him like a book didn't mean he wanted him to. It sounded stupid out in the air. You can't get married just because you have a twin? What kind of crock of shit was that? But it felt right, even if it sounded stupid. They weren't normal; they had murdered together, had visions together, dreamed together. Their connection was deep, soul-deep even, and he could not imagine bringing someone outside into it. Their parents had been one thing, but a wife was something entirely different. They would no longer share a room, no longer spend every moment together; there would be another person to whom Murphy had made unbreakable promises. It would no longer be between just the McManus brothers and God.

"That's exactly what you were saying. Didn't have a brother. You're right, Connor." Murphy's voice was thoughtful, heavy. "What we do… we can't be bringing someone else in on it. You're fucking right. Look at what it did to Ma, Da leaving her with us and all that, and then we would be split up. Splitting up would be a good way to get us fucking killed out there. You're right. Ya always are."

Connor felt the defeat in the air and knew without a doubt that Murphy meant was he was saying and that meaning that was breaking his heart. But he loved his brother more than himself, and he would do nothing to hurt him. Murphy was that kind of brother.

Connor felt the hot rush of shame.

"_Each man should have his own wife, and each woman her own husband."_

Corinthians 7:2

Knelt at the altar in the tiny chapel, Connor whispered the Lord's Prayer. The lines of his face were tight, etched into prominence by the worries he was carrying with him. There were two beings he took his concerns to: Murphy and God, usually in that order. And now it was time to talk to God. He whispered the Lord's Prayer over and over, the rote action soothing as his mind raced to find commune with the Lord. He had read his Bible, said his prayers, but nothing was easing his mind. There was still the fear of change, the fear of losing the connection with Murphy that allowed them to be what they needed to be, but now it was equally mixed with guilt for what he was robbing his brother of. His brother loved a woman, a good salt-of-the-earth, God-fearing woman, with a kind face, rosy cheeks, and bright eyes, and he wanted to marry her. Yet Connor was unwilling to let that happen for his possibly selfish reasons.

"Give me an answer, God," he finally said, opening his eyes and lifting them heavenward. Jesus hung on the cross on the wall, silent and still, and Connor thought of the awe-inspiring power and clarity of the vision they had once had in the jail. Where was another message from above like that to guide him now?

"You can't go around making commands of the Almighty," the voice floated forward to greet him, and Connor turned to look. His hope for an angel was dashed; it was just the priest, smiling at him kindly.

"Ah, father, ya startled me. Thought I'd be alone this late at night."

"As did I, my boy. You are bringing your troubles to God tonight, and I am bringing Him my gratitude. For you and your brother, amongst other things."

Connor raised an eyebrow in surprise. "For us?"

"Aye, for you. You uphold the Lord's tenets in a world quickly forgetting them, and your devotion to His will inspires me not to abandon this building, even though there are so few farmers left in these hills to attend."

"We're grateful you're not leavin'. We need to attend mass."

The priest waved his hand appreciatively, but then his eyes turned serious and still. "What is troubling you, Connor?"

Connor could not reveal his anguish; though the clergy knew of his… work with his brother, they were not family, and the bonds of blood and friendship ran deep and unbreakable between him and Murphy. He tried to think of a way to word his query without betraying the brotherly trust but could think of none. "I cannot say, father. It is between me and God."

The priest looked disappointed, unable to resist the temptation to know more about the McManuses. They were good men, he knew that much, but Connor also knew the priest was naturally curious to know more. Not many men walking the modern world had been given a mission from God with such clarity. But today was not the day he would find out more about these brothers.

"Very well. Shall I leave you with your prayers?"

"No, I best be getting home anyway."

Connor rose and walked to the back of the church and out the door. The walk across the chilly, damp path from the farmhouse to the church was quiet. No lightning cracked and carried with it the voice of the Lord, and no visions sprang up in his path. When he reached the house, he walked in quietly and shut the door behind him. It was warm from the fire inside, and he saw Murphy in the chair by the fire. He was sitting hunched over, elbows resting on his knees, one hand cradling a scruffy chin. The deep sadness written on that face, with its closed eyes, made Connor's stomach turn.

This image right here was his sign from God. Murphy had to marry Clara. Connor could stop him, but he should not and would not.

"Aren'tcha even gonna welcome me home after a long walk in the damp?" Connor said, and Murphy looked up. He straightened his back and shook his head, obviously trying to clear any traces of his sadness from his visage.

"Welcome home. There's stew on the counter still, and I can add a log to the fire if ya have gotten chilled," he said kindly. "I got in early. The ewe who was due to lamb in a few months died. Twisted intestine, I suppose."

"Hard to keep those pregnant ones alive in this unseasonable cold."

"Sure is."

Connor scooped up a bowl and ladled himself out some stew; it was good, thick nourishment for men who worked hard. He held it with one hand and grabbed a wooden chair with the other, pulling it over to the fire so it was across from his brother. First, he ate some, not realizing how hungry he was until he started, and then he broke the peaceful quiet they both had come to love nearly as much as the raucous noise of an Irish bar.

"Ya remember Rocco, Murph?"

His twin looked up, startled, and answered so fast the words were barely legible through his indignant brogue, "Of course I do. What the fuck kind of question is that?"

Connor smiled at the very corner of his mouth, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pack of smokes. He hit it against his hand and pulled out two cigarettes. Simultaneously, the motion trained by years of familiarity, Murphy pulled out his lighter and tossed it to him, then accepted the second cigarette. The exchange was so smooth, so practiced, that it did not even have to interrupt their communication. Connor took a long drag and then replied,

"Rocco wasn't one of us, you know?"

"You mean a twin?"

"No, one of us. The Saints, or whatever the hell you want to call us. That's just us."

"Ah… I guess not."

"But he was still our brother, just not one of _us_."

"What tha hell are ya saying, Connor?" Murphy's eyes were starting to glint, a sure sign that his quick temper was starting to tip towards anger. Murphy did not like to have trouble following anything, particularly anything his brother was saying.

"I'm saying you're pretty fucking dumb not to see that Clara can marry you. Fuck, she can even be a fucking McManus, but she won't be one of _us_. The fuck does having a brother have to do with having a wife?"

Now the vein in Murphy's temple was starting to visibly thump, and Connor knew he was getting really angry. "Now what in God's name are ya saying? You were the one who –"

Connor interrupted, "You're not wanking off looking at me at night or some fuckin' creepy shit like that? That why you think ya can't get married? Effing weird, man."

And just like that, the precarious lid on Murphy's temper flipped, and he thrust an arm across the gap between them and smashed his lit cigarette down on Connor's arm. Connor howled in pain and launched himself across to tackle his brother. They fell in a tangle, grappling, punching, kicking, acting for all the world like two overgrown children, but Connor could feel anger in Murphy's actions that ran deeper this time, and he was glad for this scrap to get it out.

Finally, Connor bested him. It almost always happened that way; Murphy would start a fight, instant in his anger, but the emotion would burn out before the physical altercation did, easy come, easy go, and Connor would pin him. Now he sat, knees pinning down the inside of his brother's elbows, and chuckled.

"So easy to get yer goat, dear brotha," he said, "Now listen up, now that you have no choice," Murphy struggled and opened his mouth to speak, but Connor clamped a hand over it. "No, ya gotta listen. Shut up and listen. You'd better marry this gal, so's I can stop worryin' that you're lustin' after me body."

And with that said, he rose to his feet and held out a hand to help Murphy up. Murphy accepted it and eyed him suspiciously. "Ya truly mean it? Ya want me to marry her?"

"As long as I'm the best man."

"Fuck no. I'll be the best man. I always am," Murphy cracked a grin at his bad joke. He reached two fingers over to touch the red and black cigarette burn on his brother's arm. "Sorry about that."

"Ah, it's fine. I made ya do it. Hurts like hell though. When are you gonna propose?"

"Shit. I hadn't thought of that part."

"What if she says no? No, no, no, no." He chanted the two letter word, sing-song and chuckling.

"Fuck you."

The banter felt good, warm, real, reassuring, and Connor thought he could feel God's smile on them as they talked. He could feel he had made the right decision. He could feel that it must happen this way, that perhaps, even, things must change to stay the same.

"_Love is patient. Love is kind."_

I Corinthians 13:4

On a rare sunny day in the wild green hills of a sheep farm in Ireland, Connor accepted a gift from his brother: a new sister. Some might view it as Connor giving Murphy away, but both twins knew better. Instead, they were welcoming someone new to them. Clara was radiant in her lacy dress, smiling the deep, knowing smile of a woman with complete confidence in her decision, and she pulled Connor aside before the ceremony and whispered, "Thank you," as if she somehow knew what had had to transpire between the brothers before this day could come.

The three of them fell into a new rhythm. Connor moved into the loft of the farmhouse where he and Murphy had once lived when their Da had been alive and here with them, and Murphy and Clara lived downstairs in the main bedroom. They would sit around the fire the three of them and eat and talk and laugh. She would chuckle at their fights, frown at their language, and soothe the cuts and bruises of their work days. At the end of the night, once everyone had gone to bed, Connor knew that Murphy and his wife became something new and foreign to him, a new kind of partnership he could not yet comprehend. But he felt God's blessing on the house.

Even more, he knew his brother had made the right decision when they finally told her about who they were. A quiet, country woman she might be, but Clara did not flinch from Murphy's hands even as he informed her that they had borne death to many men. She simply straightened her back and said, "Our Lord works in mysterious ways," and handled that as smoothly and gently as she handled their excursions to take the sheep to greener pasture. She was soothing water to the hot fire that had always been Murphy.

When the day finally came that Connor met a woman whose rollicking green eyes pierced his soul and who chased her Hail Mary's with shots of whiskey, he was not afraid to marry her and bring her into the fold. They were shepherds, after all. He now knew that he and his brother shared a love that was big enough to never be spread too thin. They still faced bullets side by side and doled out justice in the form of gratuitous violence, but they were all the stronger in their war with the peace of their home always at their backs. The Saints were spreading their purpose in God's plan to new places, beyond the battlefield also to the homefront.

Places that made them think of their Da with their Ma all those many years before. Was their life pattern written out in their blood, spelled out in DNA to be passed on to those yet to come?

Each night, Connor still knelt in the chapel to say the Lord's Prayer, still waiting God's message for this coming phase of their lives. Did their mission ever end, or was its closure only with death? Were they meant to start families or follow a mercenary's discipline? What was their new purpose?

God remained silent.


	2. Chapter 2

"_Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you. And before you were born, I consecrated you; I have appointed you a prophet to the nations."_

Jeremiah 1:5

Some signs speak to humans on a basic biological level; they register in the core recesses of the brain before they are even recognized at the conscious level. Because of this basic truth of humanity, Murphy knew that the next generation of McManuses was on its way before he even consciously noticed the softening of Natalie's middle. He first noticed it as she bent over the back of a chair to kiss Connor's cheek one morning. Her stomach bulged just a little as her once perfect body folded, a soft roll of flab visible over her waistband, nearly hidden by her shirt. Murphy's stomach dropped as if he had just witnessed a murder, rather than a tender morning scene.

It was not the idea of new life that made the pit of his stomach clench. Instead, it was the fact that he realized its existence as he packed his guns, taking care to have silencers. It was the fact that if Connor knew, he had not said anything to his brother about it and that they were about to go end lives at the near moment of discovery. As if by habit, Murphy kissed Clara goodbye, a cursory kiss with open eyes on Natalie and Connor, and then accompanied his brother out of the door to the waiting car, a black sedan driven by the quiet local priest.

They always rode in silence to the airport; sometimes the priest would send them off with a Bible verse or a "God bless," but mostly they rode in silence, each man speaking with the Lord on his own quiet wavelength to justify and bless the strange missions He had sent them on. It was when they finally boarded the airplane, rubber boot soles silent on the ramp, that they settled into their seats and began to talk. This time, the plane was a small one, and they choose seats facing one another. As always, they each opened their bags again and double-checked their equipment, an act that served as cathartic rather than necessary. As Murphy ran his finger lightly over the edge of his serrated blade, feeling the wicked indentations just barely bite at his skin, he finally opened his mouth,

"Things goin' good with you and Natalie?"

Connor looked up and cracked a grin that looked equally like a grimace, the kind of smile tight around the corners. Murphy knew better than to take the tightness in the smile as a bad sign. It was nigh impossible to truly smile right before doing a job, not because of any qualms about what must be done but because of the fear of what they personally risked by being the vengeful hammer of the Lord. An awareness of their own mortality was just one of the many burdens that accompanied them to a job.

"The hell kinda question is that? You fuckin' live with us," Connor replied, wiggling his finger on the trigger of his gun as if assessing its sensitivity as he pointed it at his brother.

"Just figured I'd ask. Ya haven't mentioned much about how it's all goin' lately. You're still no' marryin' her, after all."

Now Connor actually laughed, genuine amusement on his face. He reached across the space between them and smacked his brother's arm lightly. "Ya know Natalie. Hardly the marryin' type. Spendin' my days waitin' on her to be ready." The words were spoken with plain, honest affection running through them, and Murphy felt a surge of sharp shame that he had not given his goodbye to Clara more than a cursory moment. Clara was gentle, patient, and loving to a fault; he had chosen her without a moment's hesitation. Without even noticing he did it, he reached his hand up and lightly tapped two fingers over his heart. _Just like tha'._ Then, of course, he thought of Natalie, with her lithe, lean body and her propensity to drink until she swore like a sailor, loud and competitive and wild. The image of his brother's fiery, fierce dame contrasted with his new knowledge that she was carrying a baby within her.

"True, true," Murphy finally replied. He shrugged his shoulders and tried to read something, anything, about the pregnancy on his brother's face. He saw nothing there besides the usual open, easy expression, only slightly hardened by the mental preparation for the job.

"Besides, I got enough on my plate keepin' Clara offa me," Connor shook his shoulders and waggled an eyebrow suggestively, eyes mirthful. Murphy laughed out loud, not even able to pretend to feel any rise of anger, so ridiculous was the idea that Clara could want anyone but him. "Your woman's an animal, Murph."

"More like an angel," Murphy admitted with chuckle. "And fuck you for sayin' anythin' else."

"It's my job. You feelin' ready for today?"

"Cleanin' house on a bunch of Chicago lowlifes? Best believe I'm ready."

"Nervous at all? We're lookin' at 11 or 12 guys, two of us."

Murphy shrugged. "They're odds I'll take." Even as he said it, though, the image of Natalie's little roll of flesh rounding over her jeans flashed through his mind. Were they odds that she would choose, knowing what she must know? Would she be willing to send Connor into those odds if she really stopped to think about it? He repacked his knife and thought of his Da. They had grown up without him, and yet, they had turned out like him, better than him but in the same line of work. Was Connor going to have a son who would carry on this work? Murphy tried to imagine a nephew behaving this way and felt a touch of anger. Suddenly their mission, for one brief second, felt like a curse inflicted on their family. He did not want to doom another generation to this. It was one thing for him and Connor – they had each other first and foremost – but it had been another and more terrible journey alone for their father.

Murphy shouldered his bag as they exited the plane and did not make eye contact with Connor. He knew it would alarm his brother to see hesitation in his eyes.

"_Come to me all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."_

Matthew 11:28

"What the fuck were ya thinkin' in there? Wha' the fuck was that, you fuckin' son of a bitch?"

It had taken a while for Connor to spit out the words and break the silence, but once he did, there was genuine fury in his voice. They were in a cheap hotel room with two twin beds and stiff, floral print comforters, and nothing much else. The toilet seemed to be in a renovated closet, and there was no shower at all. The accommodations were hardly on either of their minds, though, and Murphy was sitting on the edge of the bed, palms on his knees and his eyes down, accepting the blast of his brother's anger.

"It's a fuckin' question I want answered! I'm not fuckin' bein' rhetorical here, Murph. You coulda been killed! Coulda gotten me killed, though it was a lot more fuckin' likely that ya would have killed yourself with that shit tonight," His voice was escalating steadily until he finally reached forward with both hands and shook Murphy by the shoulders, making his head rock back and forth wildly. Murphy reached up and slapped his hands away, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out in pain. "Answer me, damn it!"

Murphy was not sure he could answer the question even if he wanted to. There they had been, working their way down the hallway of the extravagant house. Outside, they had easily taken out two men standing as dumb muscle, untrained bodyguards meant to protect against ordinary thug threats. It had been too easy, well-practiced assassins against steroid-users packing heat, and they had continued into the house easily, slinking down the hall prepared to face anywhere from nine to ten men within. Murphy had run a gloved hand along the wall, keeping himself balanced and calm, as they walked, but the hand still shook ever so slightly. He kept thinking of that baby, kept thinking of the reality that someone besides him would have everything to lose if Connor got hurt. As they reached the door to the meeting room, the brothers could hear the rousing sounds of arguing; some of the voices had the snap of Italian in their accents, but most were pure Chicagoan scum, no importation needed. Organized crime in Chicago was a way of life, and Murphy knew that all too well. They had done tough hits in the Windy City before.

He never made a conscious decision to take the risk alone; he was not even sure he was capable of making a conscious decision to face danger without his brother at his side. But somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he must have made the choice to have Connor sit this one out for the good of the future McManus because in an instant, right there at the door to the slaughterhouse, he had turned and smacked his pistol across his brother's head right at the temple. Connor had gone out so fast that he had not even had time to make a sound, but he slumped slowly enough for Murphy to catch his body weight before it thudded the ground. Pure luck. He easily muscled his twin's body into a nearby coat closet and headed back in to do the dirty work, pumped on a strange, deadly combo of shock and adrenaline.

Now, he was facing the emotional consequences of his rash action. The physical consequences had been immediate and painful; it was only God's will that had gotten him out of that house with Connor in tow so that they could be picked up by the waiting sedan. He had a slash from near armpit to elbow, hastily wrapped in a piece of fabric ripped from the house's curtains. And worse, the same man had successfully shot him in the foot. He had not been able to stop and take his shoe off, and he had been unwilling to deal with the wound in the car, simply screaming at the priest to "Go! Go! Go!" before any gangland warning system somehow managed to catch wind of what had happened. So now, he had one shoe off and the other on, his foot so grotesquely swollen inside that removal would have been impossible. His knowledge of medicine and anatomy was minimal, so he had no idea how he had not bled out through the wound. All he had was gratitude to God that such a horrible thing had not happened.

He looked up finally at Connor, whose temple was a brilliant shade of welted black and blue and whose eyes were murderous. "Sorry I whacked ya," Murphy said calmly, shrugging the shoulder not directly connected to the throbbing pain in his arm. For a split second, Connor's mouth was open in pure disbelief. Then he ground his teeth together and let out a muffled scream of frustration. "Connor, hell, get a hold of yourself."

Connor composed himself ever so slightly, fists clenching at his sides, tight enough to whiten his knuckles and then loose enough to see space between the fingers, over and over. He closed the distance between himself and his brother and knelt down so he could look him straight in the eye. "Why the fuck did ya do it, goddamnit?" Connor roared, his nose touching Murphy's as his volume escalated again. "I swear to our Lord God that you had better answer me, or I'll kill ya."

Murphy breathed in slowly; they were so physically close that the air he sucked in was the very air his brother had just breathed out. "Didn't want to risk ya gettin' hurt this time," he muttered finally.

Connor, too, sucked in a deep breath, trying to compose himself further. "And why in God's name did this sudden concern for my safety…" he spoke very slowly to try to maintain his quieter, calmer voice, but at this point it broke, his voice becoming maniacal again, "fuckin' come up now?"

"Because Natalie's gonna have a baby!"

They both froze as if unsure what to say now that the words were out, eyes locked. Finally Connor leaned forward, touching his head to Murphy's shoulder. "I know. She has no' told me yet, but I know," he murmured. Murphy reached up to pat the side of his head.

"Some things you can just tell," he agreed quietly. Peace descended for a few minutes as both digested the information. It had been one thing for Murphy to know secretly, but it was another level of grappling and acceptance to know openly, to be willing to discuss it and make decisions based on it. He knew the many different thoughts Connor could be having, but he did not try to analyze them. He maintained the silence even when Connor got to his feet and walked across the room to face the wall. Murphy bit the inside of his cheek and readjusted his hands on his knees to keep himself from wobbling; the pain throughout his body was starting to overcome the last vestiges of adrenaline, and his vision blurred for a moment, the world spinning. Connor did not notice.

When he turned back to look at his brother, his eyes were red, his jaw tight. "Don't you ever fuckin' do that again, ya hear?"

"You're damn tough. Think you're gonna survive a little head bruise just fine," Murphy responded, chuckling, but Connor was already shaking his head.

"Not that, you bastard," he pushed a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. "Try to do it alone. Never again. Do ya realize what could have fuckin' happened to you? You didna want me to face nine men with you for fear of what might happen to me, but you faced nine by your fucking self? Do you realize what could have happened? Shit, what _should _have happened if ya look at the damn odds."

Murphy recognized the tight expression of fear on Connor's face and shook his head. He would have tried to kill Connor, had the tables been turned and he had been the one left out. "I won't do it again. But… maybe we should take a break for a while…" He reached up to touch his forehead; his skin was damp, a little clammy, and he wondered if he was in worse condition medically than he had originally thought. Maybe God's blessing had not been quite as grand as he had thought. The vague realization that he could no longer feel anything below his left knee crawled through his mind.

Connor nodded. "Yeah, have to talk to the Lord and Father Granley about it, but I think maybe you're right. If the baby is gonna make ya so crazy that ya start pistol whippin' yer own brother, we best let ya rest," he allowed a tight smile and sat down on the bed beside Murphy. "So tell me, why are ya only wearin' one shoe?"

Murphy looked down at the jacket he still had on, hiding the roughly bandaged arm, and at the shoe, which now would be all but impossible to remove. "Well, things didn't go quite as smoothly as I mighta implied…" He said weakly, dropping his body weight backwards so he was laying down. Then he closed his blue eyes.

"Not smoothly how?"

"I mighta got shot and sliced."

"Holy fuck."

"I did the killin' alone. You can do the medical shit," he muttered weakly. "Alone."

And with that, Murphy McManus passed out.

"_Therefore what God has yoked together, let no man put asunder."_

Mark 10:9

Sweet, angelic Clara came at Connor like a wild animal when he helped Murphy into the cottage nearly a week later. Murph could not put any weight on his foot at all, and an infection that had developed in his side wound had left his face drawn and pale and his body feverish. He looked like death given a physical form, and when Clara saw him, deposited into his chair by his brother, she went at Connor like a woman possessed. It was days before Clara spoke to Connor civilly, spending every moment tending her husband's wounds and kissing his feverish head. Murphy lived in a haze, and the only things he knew through his fever was the touch of Clara's hands and the sound of Connor's voice, two medicines more powerful than anything man-made. Connor spoke to him of the farm work, of the Mass he had missed, and of his hopes and prayers for the McManus yet to come. Clara simply soothed with her cool, loving hands, loving without words and with as great an intimacy as the nights they had lain entangled in their sheets. When Murphy was well enough to hobble around unassisted on the badly damaged foot, Clara finally started showing Connor her old sweet kindness, and additionally, Murphy noticed, she started showing renewed kindness to Natalie as well, treating her as a sister in a way never done before.

"Murph, love, you're no' up for riding out with Connor yet," Clara told him, her voice a command. "Let Natalie keep riding with him for ya, at least for now." Murphy recognized the knowing look in her eyes and knew that she, too, knew Natalie's secret. All of them knew that Natalie was carrying the future in her womb, and any day now, she would have to openly speak the words to Connor. Clara wished to give them that chance by continuing to allow them their private rides out with the sheep each day. Murphy tried to ignore the itch to get back to work and sat back down in his chair with a grumble and frown.

"Bring me the Good Book then, Clara, and let me be to read it," he groused, and she did as she was told with a bemused smile before returning to her sewing in her own chair. They swapped commands so naturally and easily that the idea of one of them taking offense was foreign to them. They were a pair second in seamlessness only to him and Connor. Murphy went to Revelations and began to read, absorbing the words of upheaval and change and apocalypse, great terror and great joy, as the words from the Almighty that he believed they were. He was so absorbed in his lesson with God that he did not hear the door from upstairs open and see Natalie come down the stairs; he did not notice her at all until she stood beside his chair and tapped on his shoulder.

"Ye can ride out with Connor today, Murphy. I've told 'im the news."

Just like that, Murphy felt a weight lifted off of him and given to God. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks and nodded his head, rising awkwardly to his feet, foot still weak, recovering from both bad injury and shoddy medical attention. He put a hand on her shoulder.

"Congratulations, sister," he replied. "I'd best be gettin' ready to go then."

As he hobbled through his routine to prepare for riding out with Connor, he again felt the comfort of knowing he was walking with his brother, his Lord, his wife, and his sister. They were a family, forged by both blood and love and God's purpose, and he felt pride and fear equally in what was to come. When he walked down the stairs and out to the stable to see Connor, there was no need for words between them. They locked eyes, and Murphy stepped forward to give his brother a hug. They embraced for thirty long seconds, grounding themselves in prayer and preparation for the next step, and as they mounted up their horses, Murphy doing so with the help of his brother, they rode forth with the same questions in their minds.

What would Connor's fatherhood, and Murphy's inevitable fatherhood, bring? Who would they be as fathers? What was to come, and how did it match with God's mission for them here on this earth?

Were they carrying a blessing or a curse in their blood that they were now preparing to pass on?

It seemed only time, and not God, would reveal the answer to them.


End file.
